


Cookie War

by whispered_story



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, Fluff, Holidays, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 22:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4762817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whispered_story/pseuds/whispered_story
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wants to make cookies. Sam is mostly just confused, but he's okay with licking frosting off Dean's finger. [reposted, first posted on livejournal 3/12/2013]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cookie War

Sam is not really sure how it happens. One minute they're drinking whiskey with the TV on in the background, both of them sprawled out comfortably on the bed in Sam's room, and the next Dean starts babbling about Christmas and cookies and traditions and pulls Sam off the bed and into the bunker's kitchen.

"Umm, what?" Sam asks, blinking. Dean is getting bowls and spoons and a freaking whisk out of cabinets, grinning widely.

"The books, Sam," he says a bit impatiently. "It's on the shelf to your left. Second row."

"Book," Sam echoes. "Uh, what book?"

"Baking, Sam!" Dean exclaims, and gives him an exasperated look. "Keep up, would you?"

"Right," Sam agrees, and thinks maybe he had more whiskey than he thought he had. It tends to happen when he tries to match Dean drink for drink.

"What are we doing again?" he asks as he hands Dean the book. Dean flips it open and leaves through it, stopping on a page with a bright, colorful picture of cookies shaped like trees, stars and reindeer.

"We're making Christmas cookies," Dean says, the 'duh' clear in his voice.

"Of course," Sam says, and looks at the counter and the items spread out on it. "Why?"

"Because it's Christmas soon, Sammy. And Christmas means _cookies_ ," Dean replies excitedly, finger tapping against the recipe. 

"Do we even have all the ingredients for those?" Sam asks, doubting the answer is yes. Dean might be quite handy in the kitchen, preparing lunch and dinner for the two of them most days, he's never seen Dean _bake_ anything.

Dean glances at Sam, then at the recipe and seems to skim it too quickly to really take it in. "Uh, yeah, looks like we do."

"Really?" Sam asks, leaning over Dean's shoulder to read the list of ingredients. "And we have those cookie shape thingies too?"

"Cookie cutters," Dean replies, and looks a little flustered when Sam raises his eyebrows at the quick reply. "Uh, yeah. Yes, we do. Those Men of Letters keep surprising you, huh?"

He waves his hand at the counter, and there are indeed cookie cutters lying next to the bowl and whisk. "Dean?" Sam asks.

"Yes?"

"Those are still in the packaging," Sam points out. "And they look pretty damn new."

Dean turns away, fiddling with a pack of sugar, and Sam watches the back of his neck turn red. "This place is really weird," he says, voice just a tiny bit higher than usual. "Stop questioning it, Sam."

Sam decides not to push the issues, because if Dean wants to make cookies bad enough that he planned the whole thing and is wrapping it in cute, little lies, then Sam isn't going to rain on his parade. 

"Well," he says. He steps up behind Dean and places his hands on Dean's hips, ducking his head down to kiss the back of Dean's neck, lips tracing the flushed skin. "Let's make the best damn cookies in the world then."

"Hmm, let's," Dean agrees, tipping his head forward just the tiniest bit.

+

"It says here the dough should be fluffy," Sam says, looking down into the bowl. "What exactly is fluffy?"

Dean steps up next to him and peers at the dough, then pokes it with his fingers. "Looks about right," he says, pleased, and Sam frowns.

"How do you know? Have you ever baked anything in your life?"

Dean frowns up at him. "We used to make cookies on Christmas when you were younger, remember?" he says, and when Sam shrugs, he continues, "You loved decorating them. You'd put so much icing on them you couldn't really see the actual cookie anymore."

"Huh. I think I sort of remember that, yeah," he admits. There's a memory niggling in the back of his brain, of licking icing of a spoon.

Dean smiles and nods. "Yeah. I swear you were having the time of your life doing that, but you always made a huge mess in the process."

He doesn't look unhappy saying that, but the words make Sam's chest ache a little, thinking about how Dean has been cleaning up after him all his life – the messes just got a lot bigger.

"Sam?" Dean prompts, and Sam forces a smile on his face.

"Well, let's see if we can do this without making a mess this time," he suggest with fake cheer, and Dean leans up and kisses the corner of his mouth.

"Some messes are good messes," he murmurs, and Sam thinks it's fucking unfair that Dean can read his mind.

+

The cookies come out perfect – a soft golden color, smelling delightful, and Sam sets them down carefully after he takes them out of the oven, careful not to jostle or break them. 

"These look pretty nice," he admits, looking down at the stars and Christmas trees and the hearts Sam insisted on just to torment Dean. He stops when he spies a cookie in the corner of the sheet and snorts. "Dean. Is that a _penis_?"

"It's art," Dean replies proudly, grinning, and Sam rolls his eyes.

"Seriously? A Christmas cookie dick?" he asks, and Dean shrugs.

"It seemed appropriate," he says and Sam can't even really argue with that, because yeah. For them, it is. 

"I'm writing our names on all the hearts just for that," he replies anyway, and Dean laughs.

"That's okay," he says. "I'll write my name on the dick and make you eat it."

"You're not!" Sam asks. "And you can't _make me_ eat the damn thing. I'm taller and stronger, asshole."

"Hmm, we'll see," Dean replies, and Sam chooses to accept that as a challenge.

+

Decorating the cookies gets ever so slightly out of hand. 

Dean looks entirely too proud once he's done decorating the penis-shaped cookie, and then tries to jostle Sam each time he carefully writes out one of their names. Sam retaliates by smearing icing over Dean's face. 

He might as well have declared war.

When the last cookie is decorated – with sparkly, sugary sprinkles and pearls, because Dean insisted they needed 'princess cookies' for Sam, ducking each time Sam tried to smack him – there's as much icing on the cookies as there is on the two of them. Dean doesn't look bothered though. He brings one of his hands up to his mouth after placing the last cookie back on the sheet and licks a stripe up his finger.

"Hmm, good," he says, and Sam's thoughts trail off to entirely inappropriate musings about Dean and icing.

"Want a taste?" Dean asks with a knowing smirk, looking at him, and Sam flushes.

"I'm good," he replies, but Dean holds out his hand anyway, finger inches away from Sam's lips. Sam is only so strong, and he leans in, wraps his lips around Dean's finger and sucks it into his mouth.

"Fuck, Sammy," Dean groans, eyes going wide, and Sam hums. He releases Dean's finger with a wet, loud 'pop'.

"Dean?" he asks, voice husky.

"Yeah?"

"Get your ass into the bedroom before I jump you right here and ruin the cookies," Sam warns and Dean looks utterly delighted.

+

Sam ends up with a sugar high from all the icing he licked off Dean's body and lies awake for hours, feeling jittery and giddy. Dean, of course, is dead to the world, lying half on top of him and snoring softly into Sam's ear.

There are traces of green and red and white all over his body from Sam's fingers, come and frosting creating a disgustingly sticky mess between their bodies, and his breath smells like whiskey and sugar.

It's perfect.


End file.
